


let myself in

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Marvel
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:06:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2246712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy wakes up to the sound of breaking glass. An intruder in the house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let myself in

Foggy Nelson is not a particularly light sleeper, but it’s hard to sleep through the sound of glass smashing. Especially when the sound comes from _inside_  your apartment. Your apartment where you live  _alone_. For a minute he just lay, frozen under the blankets. It was a hot summer night, but his body flushed cold with fear, a clammy sweat prickling his skin. The urge to live in denial, to pull the covers up over his head and pretend he hadn’t heard anything and hope it all just goes away is strong, but it could be  _anyone_  out there, and he has no idea what they want. They could just be trying to steal his tv, or they could be another psycho villain Matt’s pissed off, looking for a way to get even. Foggy’s not sure when exactly it became common knowledge among some of New York’s most villainous that the best way to hurt Matt is to hurt him, but since whenever that was he’s been playing the part of damsel in distress  _way_  too often.

So he sits up slowly, trying to move soundlessly. His cell phone’s just across the room, charging, and he silently curses his lack of foresight in not keeping it nearer to him. The sheets whisper against his skin and his heart pounds so loud, like a drum in his head, like a distress call, an sos sent into the darkness of the night.  _Matty, please be awake, please be listening, please be out there. I need Daredevil. I need you._

“Foggy?” Matt’s voice sounds through the darkness, like an answer to all Foggy’s silent prayers, like his own personal guardian angel. “Foggy, you awake? I didn’t mean to scare you.” The sound of heavy footsteps, broken glass tinkling. And that’s  _wrong._ Matt can move silent as any member of the Hand when he wants. A ragged cough. Something’s  _wrong._

“Matty?” Foggy’s out of bed and moving across the room almost instantly, before he can finish processing that thought, follow that line of reasoning to its natural conclusion.  _Something’s wrong, Matt’s hurt._ In his haste he trips over some unknown object on the bedroom floor, yelps and lands heavily against the bedroom wall.  _Smooth going_ , he thinks wryly, feeling across the wall for the light switch. _It’s a good thing it_ is _just Matt. Ninja, you are not._ He blinks into the bright light, squinting as he opens the door onto the hallway.

Even knowing, even prepared, his heart still lurches painfully in a combination of fright and worry as he sees Daredevil, bathed in shadows at the end off the hallway. For a moment he understands why the crimson cowl strikes fear into the hearts of criminals, then Matt moves, stumbles into the light, and Foggy can see from the way Matt’s moving, the way he’s cradling his side that’s he’s hurt.

“Matt?” He hates the quaver in his voice. “What happened? Are you – are you okay?”  _Dumb question._ “What happened?”

“Daredevil stuff,” Matt says succinctly, leaning against the hallway wall. “I’m okay.”

Foggy raises an eyebrow, though he’s not sure for whose benefit. “Yeah… you look it.”

“You should see the other guy,” Matt says, then,“sorry about the noise. Knocked a glass down when I came in through the window – you should think about getting locks on those, by the way.”

Both eyebrows need to be raised for that comment. “But then how would you let yourself in? The front door’s obviously out of the question.”

“You really wanted me to turn up on your front door dressed like this?” Matt responds wryly. “People will start talking if men in leather start ringing your doorbell at 3am.”

“That’s why I gave you a _key,_ ” Foggy says, crossing his arms, but Matt has a point. There’s no point making it even more widely known that Daredevil has ties to one Franklin Nelson. People tend to forget about him, or overlook him. Sometimes that’s better. “Come on. Let’s clean you up.” He moves past Matt to the bathroom, flipping the lightswitch.

“I’m sorry,” Matt says, sounding weary. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“You’re hurt,” Foggy disagrees, flipping the toilet lid closed and pushing Matt down.“of course you should’ve come here. Well, maybe stopping off at a hospital would have been a better idea…”

Matt actually grins a little at that. “No way. Too many questions.”

“Maybe, but also trained medical professionals. Which I am not, in case you’d forgotten,” Foggy reaches for the medical kit he keeps in the bathroom cabinet. It’s unused but well-stocked, more thoroughly stocked than is really necessary for a simple around the home one, but he’d wanted to be prepared. Just in case.

“It’s nothing too serious,” Matt says dismissively, and Foggy swallows a snort at that. There’s blood dripping between Matt’s fingers, splashing onto the bathroom tiles. “I would have just gone home, but yours was closer… I didn’t mean to wake you, just wanted to fix myself up in the bathroom and go on home.”

Foggy does laugh at that a little, a faintly hysterical giggle. “Oh yeah, because that wouldn’t have been at all alarming. Waking up to find your bloody footprints tracked all over the house.”

Matt’s brow crinkles a little in confusion. “Bloody footprints? Oh.  _Oh_. I’m didn’t realise.”

“Yeah, well, don’t worry about it. It’s more drips than footprints anyway,” Foggy says hastily, seeing the way Matt’s lips are pulling down sadly, and knowing if he doesn’t head Matt off at the pass they could very easily end up spiralling down into a pit of Matt’s Heroic Angst, which his carpets really don’t warrant. “I’ll send you the carpet cleaning bill, and I know a good attorney if the cleaners call the cops about the bloodstains.”

Matt’s lips quirk upwards at that, and Foggy lets out an internal sigh of relief. “I’ll take that case pro bono” Matt quips, undoing the top half of his suit, peeling leather away from bruised and bleeding skin with barely a wince.

Foggy can’t remain quite as stoic, breath hissing out as he takes in the bleeding gash across Matt’s chest. Thankfully, despite the blood, it looks fairly shallow, it’s the discolouration round Matt ribs that worries Foggy, thundercloud-dark bruises spreading out over pale skin. “Ouch. Sure you don’t want an actual doctor Matty? Those ribs look nasty.”

“Nothing’s broken,” Matt says, running a hand over them with a clinical touch. “Just tape them up, they’ll heal. I can do it, I normally do.”

“Let you do it yourself? No way,” Foggy says quickly. He bites his tongue on rest of the words he wants to say, doesn’t voice the discomfort he feels at Matt’s dismissal of his own injuries, the dispassionate assessment like he doesn’t even feel the pain they must surely be causing him. Maybe he doesn’t. The thought’s not a comfort. Foggy might not have medical training, and Matt probably knows how to take care of his injuries better than Foggy can, but the thought of Matt cleaning his own cuts, tending his own wounds with the scarily impersonal lack of concern Matt’s showing at the moment sends alarm bells ringing in Foggy’s head.

He cleans the cut, dresses it clumsily with shaking fingers, tries not to think about his friend’s blood on his hands. Focuses instead on Matt’s steady breathing, the solid, comforting feel of his skin against his fingers. His own breathing gradually slows, and the nervous, panicky feeling that’s been there since he woke begins to subside. Done with the dressing, he turns his attention to the ribs.

“Raise your arm,” he says, instead of the things he wants to say, like  _Damn it, Matt! Be more careful. Please. For my sake if not yours._

Matt obediently raises his arm, then grimaces before quickly smoothing his face, trying to hide the flash of pain.

“What’s the matter?” Foggy asks, knowing if he doesn’t call Matt out, his friend will never mention it.

“Nothing,” Matt says automatically, then maybe remembers who he’s talking to. “Nothing serious. Just pulled a muscle in my shoulder. It’s fine, Foggy. Honestly.”

“Yeah, because you’d  _never_ lie to me,” Foggy says, injecting as much sarcasm as possible into his tone to compensate for the fact Matt can’t see the look Foggy’s giving him.

“I can’t tell if I’m more hurt by that as a lawyer or as your friend,” Matt says, amused, but he doesn’t contest the point.

Matt stays silent as Foggy tapes him up, except for a few pained sounds that escape his lips. His eyes flutter closed, his skin almost grey under the harsh florescent lighting of the bathroom. Foggy thinks he’s made a real hack of this job, doesn’t know how much support his taping is actually going to provide. “Remind me to sign up for a first aid class on Monday.”

“I don’t plan on making a habit of this,” Matt says, gingerly straightening up.

Foggy doesn’t argue with that, though he wants to tell Matt he can always come here if he’s hurt. “It can’t hurt to know anyway.”

“True, the amount of trouble I get you in,” Matt says, with a familiar note of self-disparagement in his voice. Foggy resists the urge to shake it out of Matt, figuring he’s been manhandled enough for one night. It’s hard; Matt could test the patience of a saint while simultaneously martyring himself in emulation of one.

“Anything else that requires medical attention, while the doctor’s in the house?” Foggy says, forcing down any irritation and replacing it with cheer.

“I think I’m all patched up. Thanks,” Matt says, with tired sincerity. “I’ll get out of the house and let you sleep now, I promise.” He doesn’t move though, not immediately.

“You don’t have to go,” Foggy says. “I don’t really like the thought of you leaping round rooftops like this anyway.”

“I’ll be fine,” Matt says, but there’s no real protest in his tone; his head is drooping as he sits, he looks like he could fall asleep right there.

“You say that, but I’d be the one lying awake worrying about whether my idiot friend has slipped on a roof-tile or is lying in a gutter somewhere,” Foggy says, offering Matt a hand up. “C’mon, Matty, I’ll even let you take the bed.”

“I’m not kicking you out of your own bed, Foggy,” Matt says, frowning up at him.

“And I’m not letting an injured man sleep on my couch. That’s not going to help anything,” Foggy says firmly.

Matt lets out a long-suffering sigh, but takes Foggy’s hand, lets himself be pulled up. “Fine. But don’t complain to me when I get blood all over your sheets.”

“Like I said, I’ll send you the dry-cleaning bill.” Foggy goes to let go off Matt’s hand, now his friend is safely on his feet, but Matt’s grip inexplicably tightens. He glances up, confused, but Matt doesn’t say anything, just holds on.

Foggy decides not to comment; maybe Matt’s radar sense is on the blink, maybe he’s worried about stumbling in the less familiar confines of Foggy’s house, maybe he wants Foggy to guide him, in which case he probably doesn’t want Foggy bringing it up. “C’mon, buddy. Let’s get you to bed.”

They move together to the bedroom, where Matt finally relinquishes Foggy’s hand to let him grab a spare pair of pyjama bottoms and a tshirt from a drawer. Despite their size differences, the clothes fit okay. They don’t swamp Matt completely at least. Matt toys with the neckline of the tshirt, presses it against his face.

“What’s the matter?” Foggy asks, suddenly self-conscious. “Do they smell? They’re clean, but if the detergent I used is too strong or…”

“No.” Matt flashes him a quick smile. “They’re fine.” He climbs into the bed, pulling the sheets up. “These sheets on the other hand… midnight snacking?”

“Uh,” Foggy decides not to try and lie, figuring there’s probably incriminating crumbs. “I’ll let you get to sleep.”

He moves to grab a pillow, then stills, surprised as Matt reaches out and wraps a hand around his wrist. “Do you want something, Matty?”

Matt doesn’t directly look at him, ginger hair falling over his face, into his eyes, fanning out over the white expanse of the pillowcase. “Stay,” he says softly, so softly Foggy almost doesn’t hear it.

A beat of silence. Foggy wonders if Matt can hear the way his heart just skipped a beat, wonders what Matt makes of it. For someone who says they worry about his cardiovascular health, Matt sure does do a lot to elevate his heart rate to uncomfortably high levels. “Sure,” Foggy says, when he finally finds his voice again. “Just let me get the lights.”

Matt lets him go, an unreadable expression on his face. A moment later, Foggy’s moving back through the darkness to the bed. He slides under the sheets and tries not to take up too much room.

“What are you doing?” Matt says, sounding bemused.

“Going to sleep?” Foggy responds, suddenly uncertain.

“Are you comfortable?” Matt inquires politely.

“…not really,” Foggy admits. He’s lying straight, along the edge of the bed, leaving a respectable gap between him and Matt.

“I didn’t think so,” Matt replies drily, reaching out and grabbing Foggy’s hand for the third time tonight. “Come here.”

Foggy lets Matt tug him closer, lets Matt loop an arm around him, doesn’t move as he feels Matt’s hot breath against his neck.

“Is this okay?” Matt asks, and there’s an unfamiliar edge of uncertainty to his voice. Matt the ever-confident, Matt the over-confident, suddenly shy.

“It’s fine,” Foggy says, because it really is.

“Good,” Matt says, and then his face is pressed against Foggy’s shoulder. He feels lips press against his bare skin in a soft kiss and he shivers.


End file.
